


Silver Pilot

by bonebo



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-19
Updated: 2014-03-19
Packaged: 2018-01-16 08:13:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1338370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonebo/pseuds/bonebo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing can change what he's done--</p><p>What's he lost--</p><p>What he wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silver Pilot

They'd killed him.

His lovely little boy, they'd killed him—jumped him as he was strolling from his favorite bar, tied up his lovely little hands and shot him right in his lovely little face, _bang bang bang_ and he was gone, his lovely blood gushing from his lovely little veins. Gavin had screamed when he'd first found out, when he'd gotten the call from Geoff and heard the sorrow in his voice; he'd been in England, he'd so _stupidly_ gone to England and left his boy in the States and now here he was, hand shaking as he handed over his plane ticket and mind racing with what ifs, what if he'd stayed what if he'd been there what if what if _what if_. 

It's been six months since his boy was taken from him, and the _what if_ has remained.

_I have these thoughts so often_

The killers—two of them, only two, only two to take down his mighty boy—were identified shortly after the murder, and shortly after that, Gavin introduced them to his pistol. _Bang bang_ , and just like his boy they were gone, save the loveliness; bodies stashed in a distant quarry and gun safely returned to his glovebox, and he was free. But soon he realized with a pang that he felt no better. His boy was not back. Taking their lives had done nothing for him, except make Geoff look at him strangely when he came home at two in the morning and ask his bloodied shirt in an almost—not quite—fearful tone, _”What happened to you?”_ , and the response was a shrug as he went upstairs to wash the grief and guilt away and maybe drown himself.

_I ought to replace that slot with what I once bought_

And now he is stuck. Trapped, ensnared, cornered—he's got no way out of this, no way to hide as he hears the knock at his door, the stranger's voice that tells him all he needs to know and more, and he will _not_ 'open up' to this department that couldn't give his boy justice. 

Instead, he sneaks out the back door, gets in his car, and takes off. He immediately knows he's made the wrong choice, he's fucked up bad, but without his boy to tell him, he finds he doesn't care. He cares about very little, actually—he cares about the ache he carries, cares about the empty passenger's seat of his car, cares about the voices that've been calling back and forth in his head since the day that he administered justice to two thieves by means of a bullet between the eyes.

And he wishes, desperately, that the car's stereo could drown them out.

_But somebody stole my car radio and now_

But the voices won't stop, don't stop, on and on they scream and cry and beg and he's shaking as he lifts his hand, flinches at the press of cold metal to his temple, so like the ice that runs in his veins, the chill that cloaks him constantly since that one night so long ago that he spent sitting out in the rain of an alleyway beside his boy's favorite bar. He hesitates for a second as he realizes again that he doesn't want to die, he really _doesn't_ , he wants to live and be happy again, and it's all that's on his racing mind as he pulls back the hammer, cocks the pistol, the click ringing through the empty car like the chiming of the clocks at the church he used to go to on Sundays, sitting in the back with his mother and father and wondering if he'd ever rid himself of the disease that made his stomach churn when he sang hymns.

_I just sit_

He doesn't want to die. He doesn't want to die. He wants to _live_ , dammit, he wants to live and feel sunlight on his skin and wind in his hair—anything, really, feel anything other than the constant pain of a piece of himself being torn away—and sing without hurting and he knows he's right, he's done good he's paid back those that hurt him, that hurt his boy, but then why can he still hear them scream? Why does justice plague his heart so, why does he feel guilt for doing the right thing, _finally the right thing_ , finally he did good and made—would've made—his boy so proud, so why do the dead still haunt him?

_Here in_

The muzzle of the gun is shaking against his skin. It hurts, he thinks, maybe; there's one voice that screams at him that the raking of metal over flesh is agonizing, that it slices to the bone, and another that says he doesn't care, it's but a distant bother, and the voices start to war with more joining in, shrill and deep and loud and so much—so much that in a flash of realization, of stunning clarity, he knows exactly what he must do, what he wants—and as the trigger squeezes Gavin could sob because finally, finally, he can have—

_Silence._


End file.
